


designation

by Woodswolf



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask
Genre: Blood and Gore, Coughing Blood, Disturbing Themes, Eldritch Entities, Existentialism, Fourth Wall, Gen, Not Human, Torture, i have absolutely NO idea what to tag this as sorry yall i was vibing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodswolf/pseuds/Woodswolf
Summary: the mask salesman doesn’t chase you. the mask salesman doesn’t even move. but the mask salesman is still waiting for you at the end of every twisted passage, and his smile is large and full of teeth.what is link, anyway?
Kudos: 18





	designation

**Author's Note:**

> you know all those fucked up fanarts where its like "oh shit! what the fuck IS link anyway because link sure the fuck isnt human!"? take that but also take the mask salesman as the standard "creepypasta" interpretation, put them together and what do you get? disgusting vibes! and thats how this was made (◠‿◠✿)

“you’re not human.”

you stop, then turn around. you can’t help it. the mask salesman is there, looking at you, or at least in your direction. his eyes are closed. you don’t know if you’ve ever seen them open.

“you never were human, were you?” he says. his lips are upturned in a small smile, curious. “you’ve always been… this. whatever it is you are.”

you don’t know how to respond. you don’t know what he’s talking about. (at the same time, though, you do. you just haven’t let yourself acknowledge it.)

“let’s see if we can find out, shall we?” the mask salesman asks.

you shake your head, slowly at first. you draw your foot back, slowly, attempting to step away without breaking the not-eye contact between your faces. but the mask salesman sees you, or maybe he hears you, or maybe he _does see_ you somehow, even though his eyes remain closed. he takes a step forward.

suddenly you get the impulse to flee. you turn and you run, as fast as you possibly can. the heavy wooden door to the outside would take too long to push open with your own strength, but there’s a passage off to the right that you’ve never seen before. you don’t remember the clocktower having this many hallways and passages (you don’t remember it having any hallways whatsoever) but you don’t have time to question it, because you need to _run away._

the mask salesman doesn’t chase you. the mask salesman doesn’t even move. but the mask salesman is still waiting for you at the end of every twisted passage, and his smile is large and full of teeth.

you trip and fall at his feet, this and every time.

you look up at him. his smile grows wider. you push yourself up, attempt to stand, attempt to run away again, but your legs fall out from underneath you. you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. his face enters your view, upside down.

“let’s see what you _really_ are,” he whispers. and then he opens his eyes.

in the first moment that you bear witness to what should have been the mask salesman’s eyes, you wish that you were dead. some part of you already knows that you will be, soon.

in the second moment, you become aware of an intense pain in your chest. you now remember all of the times you’ve been stabbed in the chest, memories of deaths that had been held just out of view – how many times has it happened? hundreds? thousands? more? – but none of them, somehow, can even vaguely compare to this pain. this pain of your chest being sawed through by something like a dull blade, flesh splitting, bones cracking, lungs punctured and arteries severed, this pain of something attempting to cut out your heart –

the mask salesman closes his eyes. you finally remember to breathe. instead of breathing, you begin coughing blood. you hear the mask salesman’s footsteps, but you can’t see – your eyes are blurred from pain, from blood loss, from not breathing, from –

“there you are. at last, i see you.”

the next thing you know, the mask salesman is kneeling next to you. there is a hole in your chest where your heart should be. there is something long and black and sinuous connecting the innermost unseen depths of that hole with something gray that the mask salesman is holding in his hands like a precious talisman.

he presses on it, slowly, carefully. your left arm jerks, suddenly, painfully.

“instrument of the gods,” he whispers to the gray thing in his hands, “i shall free you from your shell.”

he sets the gray thing down on your chest – three-pronged and smooth and neither warm nor cold – and then he reaches inside the hole in your chest. you feel the sensation of that arm reaching up through your throat and into an unknown space inside your head. you want to gag. you want to choke. you want to scream.

the mask salesman’s fingers grasp around something, anchored just behind your eyes. you are going to die.

as if he can hear your very thoughts, the mask salesman turns his face towards you. not toward the gray thing from in your chest; he looks at _you,_ while his fingers are inside your head. some part of you imagines that he can see his fingers through your eyes, as they tighten their grip around that secret plug within.

“silly link,” the mask salesman says, smiling gently. in that moment, it feels less like a name than a _designation._ “you’re not going to die; you’re going to _cease to exist._ ”

he pulls it free, and you know nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> whats the gray thing, you ask? [oh, you know.](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41PqoOtau4L.jpg) whatever fits the vibe.
> 
> if youre looking for more vibes like this my other zorldo fic is also very energy. other than that youre shit out of luck, there's basically 0 content that explicitly takes this interpretation ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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